Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(73)

“If my cooking will please you and mademoiselle, then so be it,” Mireille said, her fatalistic shrug indicating that the possibility of her cooking pleasing either one of them was highly doubtful. Rosalie giggled, her eyes twinkling as she regarded the pair of them.

“Don’t tease her, Rand,” she reproved, and he closed his mouth in obedient silence, the golden hazel eyes gleaming with a peculiar light as he threw her one last glance. Then he swung agilely out of the carriage to speak with the driver of the hired vehicle.

“His temper is improving,” Rosalie observed in a whisper.

“He is happy that you are better,” Mireille said wisely.

“Do you really think so? Sometimes it doesn’t seem as if . . .” Under the scrutiny of those bright chocolate-hued eyes, Rosalie didn’t finish her sentence, wondering exactly how much the girl understood. Surely my feelings for him must be as obvious as a beacon, she thought. Was Mireille, young as she was, someone she could trust? Her ponderings were interrupted as a middle-aged footman of gentle appearance helped them both out of the carriage, his band steady under her weak grasp. The traveling had exhausted Rosalie, and she became irritated with herself as she realized that her strength was far too easily depleted this soon after her illness.

Feeling vaguely removed from the scene as she stepped down from the vehicle, Rosalie stood there blinking tiredly. Although Mireille was looking around in lively curiosity, she remained firmly by Rosalie’s side, reminding Rand of a little watchdog as he approached the pair.

“Our arrival is unexpected,” he said, offering his arm to Rosalie and leading her up the wide steps to the doorway. “It will probably take a minute or two for them to prepare the rooms.”

As the front doors were opened Rosalie let out a soft, admiring exhalation, forgetting everyone around her as she took in the magnificence of the château’s interior. Balustraded galleries edged the second floor, rich with tapestries and artwork, while statues of fantastical creatures perched in corners, above arches and doorways. The colors were pale and delicate: light blue, cream, lavender, mint, while thick rococo encrustations of gold glimmered on the walls and ceiling in lavishness and abundance.

“It used to be quite elegant,” Rand said dryly. “Simple, restrained, tasteful. But during one of my mother’s last visits here she decided to redecorate . . . again.”

Rosalie nodded speechlessly, wondering how on earth anyone could live comfortably in such resplendence. The château seemed to be less of a home than a beautiful work of art. It was breathtaking to view, but how could anyone live here?

“Don’t worry,” Rand said, cupping a comforting hand over her elbow. “Most of the rooms are a little less overwhelming. Oh this woman who is approaching—she and her husband are the caretakers of the château. Since they are both highly respected in the village, we’ll hope that she’ll be considered an acceptable chaperon for you. Ah, Madame Alvin?” He turned to speak to a pleasant-visaged, rotund woman, who advanced toward them with a bewilderingly rapid stream of French. Her expression was exceptionally kind if slightly worried, her neatly kept hair a silvery color of brown, her clothes and apron scented of cleanliness and starch—a clean, toasty, motherly smell that was immediately comforting. In her increasing exhaustion Rosalie could not follow most of the conversation that ensued, comprehending only a few of Rand’s words. He seemed to be describing her as “my little cousin from England,” explaining that she had been visiting relatives in Paris when a fever had struck, and that they were here for her to recuperate. He finished with the brief introduction, “. . . Rose, may I present Madame Alvin . . . Madame Alvin, Miss Rosalie Berkeley.”

“Berk—” Rosalie began to say, stunned, and Rand smiled down at her gently, his expression brotherly as he prodded her in the side.

“Yes, I know how tired you are, petite cousine . . . a few minutes, and I’m certain Madame Alvin will have a room for you.”

Cousin Rosalie Berkeley. It was not a role that would be easy for her to slip into.

“We have one already!” Madame Alvin said, her sympathy and concern turning into a whirlwind of activity. “Eleazar, get the bags from outside, and do not drag those big feet! Ninette, show mademoiselle and her compagne the rooms upstairs, then fetch your sister from the village to help with the cooking. And, Jereme, the trunks outside are . . . Where is that boy? Eleazar, find him and tell him that we need his uncle to butler ”

Rosalie raised her eyes to the long, limitless line of stairs that led to the second floor. Ninette, a large blond girl close to her own age, indicated that they led to the bedchambers, and Rosalie stumbled forward with feet that had turned leaden, determined to retain at least a shred or two of her independence from Rand.

“Stubborn little fool,” she suddenly heard a low masculine voice next to her ear. “No doubt you intend to try the stairs without asking for any help at all. Are you planning to carry your own trunks up, as well?” Rosalie made no reply, her face pale from the toll the journey had taken. Rand picked her up easily, his arms hooked securely beneath her back and knees. “Ah, pauvre mademoiselle . “ she heard Madame Alvin exclaim, and everything passed in a rush over her head as she rested her cheek submissively against Rand’s shoulder. He carried her up the stairs as the maid led the way, his breath warm against her cheek as he glanced down at her.